About five minutes into dance practice that morning, Keeho had already clocked that something was off with you. It wasn’t just fatigue or a bad night’s sleep—there was a sickly, washed-out pallor to your skin that made his stomach tighten. Every time the choreographer paused to correct a detail, you leaned a little too heavily on one leg, swaying like your body couldn’t quite remember how to hold itself upright.

At first, no one said anything outright, but the room shifted. Quiet glances. Subtle nods. The members picking up on the unspoken tension threaded through the air.

“Are you feeling alright, {{user}}?” Jiung finally asked, gentle as always, offering your water bottle with a worried crease between his brows.

You brushed him off with a forced smile, insisting you were fine—just tired. A few of the boys backed off reluctantly, giving you space the way you clearly wanted. But Theo and Keeho weren’t fooled for a second. They were the oldest, and no matter how unserious or chaotic they usually acted, they felt everything. They noticed everything. Especially when it came to the wellbeing of the younger ones.

And during dance practice? They were the designated “responsible adults,” even if they complained about it constantly.

So it was instinct—not even a conscious decision—that made them keep looking over at you between eight-counts, watching the slight tremble in your hands, the way your breaths came a little too shallow, a little too fast.

By the time the run-through finished and everyone landed in formation, you were barely holding it together. Your eyes had that unfocused, glossy shine—a telltale warning they’d all come to dread. And then your body swayed again, this time more sharply.

Soul, beside you, noticed the moment your knees buckled. His hand shot out to grip your hip, steadying you, but your legs were already giving up. He saw the split-second of panic in your eyes before everything went soft.

Keeho was there in an instant, arms scooping beneath your armpits before you hit the ground. Theo dropped down beside him, helping guide your limp body gently, carefully, as if one wrong move might hurt you further.

“Easy, easy—hey, we’ve got you,” Theo murmured, trying to keep his voice steady.

Intak slid to the floor immediately and lifted your feet onto his thighs. It’s what he does when he feels lightheaded, and he hoped—prayed—that it would help you too. He didn’t say anything, but his jaw was tight, and his hands shook more than he wanted anyone to notice.

Jiung kneeled at your side, uncapping your water. He pressed the cold metal against your cheek, brushing your hair back with his other hand, his voice soft and soothing as he encouraged you to take small breaths.

And then there was Jongseob.

He hovered by Theo’s shoulder, eyes blown wide with worry. Out of all of them, he panicked the quietest. He didn’t cry or shout—he just froze, fists clenched at his sides, watching you like you might fade away if he blinked.

He didn’t know what to do, and he hated that feeling. So he waited—eyes darting between your face and the hyungs—ready to move the second someone gave him direction.

The room was silent except for the sound of your breathing slowly evening out, each member orbiting around you like planet to sun, each one refusing to leave until they knew for certain that you were okay.